


our curse

by ohmygodwhy



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Character Death, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, POV Second Person, Uncle-Nephew Relationship, i am Not Feelin Good today my man, ozai's a horrible father
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-10 20:16:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8937631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygodwhy/pseuds/ohmygodwhy
Summary: "Uncle hears you. Turns to look at you. Softens. Smiles. He smiles at you through the smoke, like he’s sitting across from you with a cup of tea and no care in the world."(ozai takes things a step further. zuko is alone.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> aka i was rlly just sitting here minding my own business and my brain was like hey,,,,you should take that one short fic you posted on ff last year and make it Worse
> 
> anyways, not super au but it does split from canon a little bit, do read the tags tho and pls don't hate me

Uncle used to write letters, you remember, back when Lu Ten was still alive and they were both fighting in the war. 

He would write letters from the front lines, telling tales of his latests conquests—especially in Ba Sing Se—and Mother would carefully unroll the scrolls and read them out loud and laugh at the jokes you knew he laughed as he wrote. 

He sent you all presents sometimes, too. Expensive Earth Kingdom jewelry for Mother, toys for you and Azula, books full of stories or special candies you’d never tried before. A knife, once, right before everything went Bad, and a doll that Azula hated and burned. 

That was the last letter he wrote, the one with the knife and the doll and the news that Ba Sing Se would certainly fall soon. The letter saying your cousin died was written by one of his generals or something—you know, because you read it yourself after Mother rolled it up tight and put it on her bedside table and went to go tell Father, and it was all blunt and cold detachment and _we regretfully inform you_ ; nothing like Uncle would ever write, especially not about Lu Ten. 

You didn’t think anyone could ever write that way about Lu Ten, just like you didn’t think there was any way Lu Ten could ever be dead. You just couldn’t wrap your head around it. 

Everything happened quickly after that. 

By the time Uncle comes home, old and weary and broken, Grandfather is gone and Mother has disappeared into the night and Father is Fire Lord and you don’t know what’s going on because no one will tell you anything, no matter who or how many times you ask. (You stopped asking Father after he got angry and hit you hard hard hard with the back of his hand and said _don’t you dare speak her name anymore_ , in a very cold, calm voice that terrified you more than any time he’s ever yelled.)

You’re still reeling with everything that happened while Azula takes it all in detached stride; your sister and your father spread themselves out and you can’t keep yourself from shrinking, because you’re good at that, Father said, good at being small and afraid and dependent—“ _it’s time you learn to take care of yourself”,_ locked bedroom doors and stricter training regiments and silent dinners.

Uncle comes home a broken man. That’s what Azula says, what the servants whisper in the corridors when they can’t see you. What your father says at dinner one night, when Uncle is still spending long days and longer nights alone in his room. 

Uncle comes home a broken man, because loss breaks people, you think. People love too much and when the person you love is suddenly gone they take most of you with them, probably. That’s what you think happened with Mother; you think she took some part of you with her and didn’t leave any of herself behind, and you think that’s what happened to Uncle—Lu Ten took all of his father’s drive and power with him and didn’t leave any of his own for Uncle to keep.

Uncle doesn’t write letters anymore, just sits and stares into teacups like he is remembering something he’ll never get back. It’s nobody’s fault.

He ignores burns marks and singed hair and hardly ever asks about your training, but that’s okay, because he talks to you and pours you tea and tells you stories and lets you rant about your lessons or your sister or your bending. 

You ignore the way he walks like he is broken now and how his hugs are always a little too tight and all the whispers in the palace about how tragic or disgraceful or pathetic or sad Uncle’s abandonment of the siege and return home is, ignore the way your father frowns when you talk about him.

You’re both very good at ignoring, and everyone here is very good at looking away.

Father breaks your arm in two places when you’re eleven. Uncle raises an eyebrow at your excuse but doesn’t ask anything further.

Uncle calls you Lu Ten one night. He doesn’t say it, but you see him catch himself before he does, and try not to feel too bitter about it. Lu Ten is dead, you are not. It’s a wonder your uncle doesn’t hate you for that alone, the way father hates you for being alive when Mother probably isn’t.

(He calls you Lu Ten once, way way out at sea when you’re caught up in chasing ghosts and he’s just along for the ride, and then looks so so sorry after that you can’t even be mad, but that’s okay too. Really, it’s okay. You aren’t enough, you know that, just like no one will ever be enough to replace Mom.)

(You think you almost call him Father once, by accident. You convince yourself that you didn’t, you _didn’t,_ because you’re loyal to your father, because he’s your father, and if you slip up like that so easily maybe you really do deserve to be banished.)

The point is, you both make mistakes and you both hurt each other but it’s never on purpose. You hurt each other because that’s what everyone does in this spirits-forsaken family, but you also think you maybe help each other, somehow—he’s helped you more times than you can count, he kept you alive those first few months at sea and he never got frustrated when you yelled at him and threw things and called him names and hurt so, so bad. You don’t know what you’ve done for him, other than getting him declared a traitor and letting him get thrown in prison. 

All you do is hurt and all he does is help and there’s no way this could’ve lasted, could’ve turned out well, not in a world like this, so of course you hurt too much and cross the line and he will never help you again, never look at you, never talk to you, and his back is always turned when he lets you yell and blame and try to defend yourself, and it’s all your fault, and you think you probably deserve it. Your family has created an era of fear that Uncle tried to stop, while you just let Be Sing Se fall.

 

You hear news about Ba Sing Se from a gleeful Azula, about how the Dai Li ( _“protectors of the city’s cultural heritage”_ ) brought the walls down at her command, how people cried, people shook, people gave up or fought back and got burned and people ( _the girl you went on a date with maybe, the solider who always sat at the back corner table, the kid who tossed a ball at you the woman who smiled when you took her order the man who waved the morning you opened the new shop_ ) died.

You think vaguely about that little village you stopped at, back when you were alone and tired and starving, and wonder if Li’s brother is okay. You think about Uncle’s knife, the way the kid smiled and then threw it back at you and turned away and wonder if you’re worthy to even pick it up anymore. 

(You think probably not.) 

 

Uncle used to write letters. Uncle used to send you gifts and take you to the beach and bring you tea when you’d forgotten to keep yourself warm; he used to hand out advice like secrets and teach you things without you realizing it; he helped you hang on when you collapsed and dreamed and woke up new and comfortable right before you threw it all away. 

Uncle will never write letters again, will never look at you or talk to or smile at you again because he loved you and you loved him and you turned around and stabbed him in the back anyways because you are stupid and blind and loyal to the wrong person—you run and run and run through the corridors of the palace and down the front steps and through streets because—

Father didn’t bother to tell you, Father didn’t bother to tell you anything other than _I’m proud of you, I see how much you’ve changed, welcome home_ and Azula never bothered to tell you because Azula knows you, and knows this is so so much worse than knowing— _traitors are executed, this is the way it has to be, we have to set an example, the Fire Lord can’t be lenient just because he’s his brother, you know this_ , she croons, and you _didn’t,_ you didn’t know, why did no one tell you, _spirits._

You are out of breath and shaking by the time you make it down and see the small crowd of people—small, only a select few powerful nobles and generals, much smaller than it would be if people knew this was happening right? This few people wouldn’t show up to honor his death if everyone knew about it, if you knew about it (if you knew about it you would have gotten him out, damn your honor and your country and everything else you traded Uncle for, you would have gotten him _out_ ).

_“Uncle,_ ” you yell, shoving your way through the crowd; Father turns to look at you from his balcony, high and mighty and terrible but you don’t care, can’t care, all you can see is chains and fire crawling up and up and up and everyone _watching_ , doing _nothing,_ nobody never does _anything,_ nobody ever _helps,_ “Stop, what are you doing? Please, you have to stop.” 

There are guards, probably, tugging at your arms and holding you back when you try to bend the fire _away, away from him_ , you try to yank your way free and _wait,_ you say, _wait you can’t please you have to stop—_

Uncle hears you. 

Turns to look at you. Softens. Smiles. He smiles at you through the smoke, like he’s sitting across from you with a cup of tea and no care in the world.

_I forgive you,_ his eyes say. _I forgive you, I love you, I’m sorry, there’s nothing you can do._

You can hear his voice saying _Prince Zuko_ even when you were far from home and hardly royalty, saying _a man needs his rest_ and _the secret ingredient is love_ and _there is no shame in crying, run through it one more time, it is okay to fail, I think of you as my own—_

He isn’t saying anything this time, just looking and smiling and his eyes are wet as he closes them and tilts his head to the sky like this is the end, like this could ever be the end.

“You can’t,” you say, “stop, you can’t—you can’t go—please, I’m _sorry_ I’m _so sorry,”_

The guards hold you in place, even when you go limp in their arms, and you shake and you cry and you don’t deserve forgiveness.

The Dragon of the West burns quietly, bright and brave and true. He does not make a sound, and you cannot look away.

 

Azula finds you later, on your knees and bent and feeling like you will never be able to get up again.

“Zuko.” She says, and you look up; all the people are gone. Uncle is gone; he is ash.

He is ash.

“He was your uncle too,” you say, paper thin and tearing.

“He was a traitor.” She says, but her voice is quiet.

“He was trying to save us,” you say, “save our nation from treachery.”

There is a very long pause, “Well, he failed.”

“Yeah.” You agree, staring at ash and and cold cinders that will never light again, “We will burn ourselves to the ground.”

 

Your father doesn’t seem surprised when you show up on the day of the eclipse. He doesn’t seem bothered by it at all, like you are still the six year old who’s hand shook when you were hit, the thirteen year old who would go to hell and back for him, the sixteen year old who let uncle be led away in chains. You are none of them anymore, and you are all of them.

You are a child, you are a prince, you are an exile, motherless and fatherless and a traitor to your country.

“He was your brother,” you say, shaking and steady and hating all at once, “I was your _son.”_

“Was,” he says simply, a liar a killer a monster who would kill his own son, kill his own brother, exile his wife, “now, you are traitors. Both of you. And I’ve found that exile is far too light a punishment for traitors.”

The sun is back, and he splits the air around you and tears through it. You catch and it flows through you and back the other way.

You have no family anymore. You are alone.

 

“My uncle is dead,” you say to the Avatar and his friends; you stand before them, tired and cold with a singed arm and nothing left to lose, “I’ll teach you firebending.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is more difficult to answer, almost, because you knew he loved you, it may have taken years to get it through your head but you knew Uncle loved you, but proud of you? You don’t think anyone could ever be proud of you again, not after—not after.
> 
> “I know,” you say anyway, because you know it’s true, but you also know you don’t deserve it, “I know,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello yes im back w another installment of Unnecessary Angst. it's a little rushed bc i'm leaving for my aunts wedding tomorrow morning (which means three days of homophobic extended family members and awkward dinners which i, as the Gay Cousin, am not gonna survive!!) and i wanted to finish this before i go 
> 
> (there's a lil part inspired by 'Tastes Like Home' by BetterThanCoffee on ff and also im not v good w dialogue forgive me)

 

 

When you were eight years old, your father locked you in a storage closet, where extra armor for the guards and servants’ brooms or buckets were stored, and left you there for hours. 

The first five minutes, you pounded on the door, scared and apologizing and begging to be let out, because it was dark and cramped and you were young and didn’t like being closed in spaces where you couldn’t get out and see the sun. You quickly realized that wasn’t going to work, and ended up in the far corner, curled with your knees to your chest and your arms around your knees, trying hard to keep yourself calm and in control because you felt like you couldn’t breathe, like you were suffocating in the darkness and you would never be let out. 

You stayed that way for hours, probably, eyes shut tight and breath stuttering, until Father eventually came back and unlocked the door.

You remember light spilling in, and Father peering down at you, and you remember being so sickeningly relieved and in awe you scrambled out faster than you think you’d ever moved before. You weren’t even mad at him, didn’t blame him one bit—he brought the light back to you, and all you could be was grateful; you’d messed up bad, somehow, and this was necessary for you to learn. 

He’d raised a stern eyebrow at your frantic hurry, and let you off with a short _don’t do it again,_ and you had nodded and bowed and tried not to run away when he dismissed you. 

When you were nine, you lost a practice match to your sister and he backhanded you so hard you fell over. 

_Get up, Zuko,_ he had snarled, and you remember the look in his eyes when you stumbled to your feet, like you were worth less than dirt on the bottom of his shoe, and you remember feeling worth less than dirt, you remember feeling like you never wanted to be looked at like that again, you remember deciding that you would do everything you could to never ever be looked at like that again. 

When you were ten, your mother came to your room in the middle of the night, gathered you in her arms and whispered to you and told you never to forget, never to forget who you are, told you that she loved you and that all of this was for you, and then she let go and pulled the cloak over her head and disappeared from your life like she had never been there in the first place. 

In your lowest moments, you remember wondering why she didn’t take you with her, why she left in the first place—why did she leave, if she loved you so much why did she leave you behind? She loved you, you knew that, but still. But still. She left you alone with your sister and your father and a too-empty palace. 

When you were thirteen, your father challenged you to a fight you could never possibly win, and he loomed over you, high and mighty and terrible, reached out and dug a hand into your hair and yanked your head back and burned and burned and burned until your voice cracked and died in your throat. 

Uncle never burned you. Uncle never locked you in closets or twisted your arm too far or hit you so hard you fell over. Uncle never wrapped you up and then walked away. Uncle never left you alone when you needed him, even though you needed him too much, even when you probably annoyed him half to death and pushed him so far he probably wanted to hit you so hard you’d be feeling it for days. 

Uncle never sent you away or left you behind or hurt you to teach you a lesson. (He refused to talk to you once, twice, three times, back turned in his cell, but you deserved that, you know. That was something you had to learn, that was something he had to do.)

You sit by the fire, surrounded by half-strangers you’ve hunted and fought, and you wonder why you forgave the man who hurt you so much again and again, and never stopped to thank the man who never tried to. You wonder why you were so stupid, you wonder why your father and your mother hurt you and your uncle never did, you wonder why you always wanted the wrong things when the best things were right in front of you. 

_Never forget who you are,_ your mother said. 

Mostly, you wonder what she would think of you now, and what your uncle thought of you right before he burned. 

 

The morning after you and Aang get back from the dragons (you wish you could say you were surprised to find that your fire was all but extinguished, nothing more than puffs of hot air and smoky knuckles, but then you thought about Mai and about Azula and about Uncle and about flames and knew that whatever was driving you forward now, keeping you going, it wasn’t the anger that was there before—and _this is impossible_ , you had thought in disbelief when you saw them, _because the last dragon is dead; the Dragon of the West was the last one, and he is gone)_ you finish breakfast quickly and excuse yourself quietly. 

You don’t know how to act around these people, the ones who look at you with something you don’t quite understand (suspicion, apprehension, understanding—pity) and don’t think you want to understand. You don’t quite know how to speak to them; you think they probably don’t know how to speak to you either. You think they’re as uncomfortable around you as you are around them, and perfectly fine letting you do whatever the hell you want to as long as you keep your promise and teach Aang all he needs. 

You try to ignore that the reason they do this is because they know you have nothing else to goback to. 

It’s fine, either way; you’re glad for the space you’re given as you make your way through the upside-down halls and into one of the far back rooms. 

Hidden underneath the center of the stone floor, Uncle stored some of his best tea, back when you first visited. _This is the beginning of a great journey,_ he had said, sitting across from you and ignoring the way your young hands shook around your cup, _and when our journey is complete, we will come back and have another to cup to mark the end, how does that sound?_

_It sounds like a waste of time,_ you had grumbled, when what you meant to say was _that sounds nice, that sounds like you think we can do this, I need you to think we can do this._

Uncle, it seemed, had understood anyways, like he always did. You wish you had told him, though, you wish you had told him how much that meant. You think he probably knew, but you still wish you had _told_ him. 

Toph, the earhtbender girl, comes once you have the pot heating up, walks in and sits down next to you and dangles her feet over the edge of the temple floor. 

“Do all firebenders like tea this much,” she asks, “or is it just your family?”

You look at her for a very long moment, and say “I think it was just him. I never had a very strong taste for it myself,” 

“So why the sudden interest?” she doesn’t sound accusing, just curious, a respectful kind of curious that seems too soft for her. 

You shrug, before you remember that she can’t see you, and say, “This was the first temple me and Uncle stopped at, after I was exiled. He, uh—he stored some of his favorite tea here, and said that once our—our journey was finished, we would come back and have another cup,” you dig your nails into your opposite arm to steady yourself, “I figured this is the best I’m gonna get. We started our journey here, and now I’m going to end it,” 

Toph is quiet for a long moment; you don’t look over at her because you don’t really want to see her expression right now, just fiddle with the pot and check to see if the tea is done. 

“I had tea with him once,” she says quietly, “And he gave me some me some really good advice,”

Despite everything, and how much it hurts, that makes you smile, “He always did have a thing for drinking tea with strangers,” 

She pauses for a long time before she says, “He was worried about you, you know. He cared about you a lot,” 

You swallow hard and close your eyes and say, “I know,” 

“I think he would be proud of you,” 

This one is more difficult to answer, almost, because you knew he loved you, it may have taken years to get it through your head but you knew Uncle loved you, but proud of you? You don’t think anyone could ever be proud of you again, not after—not after.

“I know,” you say anyway, because you know it’s true, but you also know you don’t deserve it, “I know,”

 

You dream about it. Sometimes, in the dreams, Uncle turns and looks at you, and his eyes are cold with _betrayal hurt disappointment hatred_ , and he says _look what you’ve done_ without opening his mouth. Other times, he bleeds forgiveness. You don’t know which is worse.

You always wake up in a cold sweat either way, panic and shame and terror all twisted up and stuck in your throat. You dig a hand into you hair and _pull_ to keep yourself from falling to pieces. You don’t ever fall back asleep. 

Toph hears you holding back yells at night, and she understands. 

 

_You never think these things through,_ Uncle says in the back of your mind, and you insist on going with Sokka to break his father out of the most heavily fortified prison in the whole damn Fire Nation, because you know what can happen when you jump headfirst into situations you can’t control with no one to back you up. 

“I think your uncle would be proud,” he says on the flight there, an older echo of Toph that has you wanting to jump out of the balloon because you _don’t deserve_ whatever pride he would or wouldn’t give and what’s the point of thinking about that anyway—it’s not like you’ll ever be able to ask him, “Leaving your home to come help us? That’s hard,”

You think about lightening and you think about you father and you say, “It wasn’t that hard,” 

(You do end up finding his father. You feel something sharp and bitter whenever you see them talk or laugh or elbow each other in the ribs, and have to look away.)

 

“When I lost my mom,” Katara says on the ride back to camp (the man who killed her mother is a coward, and you hope he remembers this day for the rest of his life), “I was angry. I was sad, but I was angry, too. I would’ve done anything to get back at the man who took her away,” she holds Appa’s reins tight in her gloved hands, “I stopped, because I won’t stoop down to his level. I’m not sure if that means I’m too weak to kill him, or if I’m strong enough not to,” she pauses, and looks over at him, blue eyes softer than he’s seen since Ba Sing Se, “Why did you stop?”

The question digs deeper than you would have expected, and you have to look away.

“It wasn’t my destiny,” you answer eventually, “Defeating the Fire Lord is the Avatar’s destiny; it’s the only way the world can be put back into balance. If I had done, I would’ve just made it worse,”

Katana looks at you for a long moment, and nods, “I think Aang does need to be the one to defeat him. He’s a powerful man, and he’s terrible, but…he’s also your father, isn’t he?” she says slowly, “I don’t think I could kill my father, no matter what he did,”

“He is not my father,” you defend feebly, “I don’t know if he ever was my father, not really,” you make yourself look up at her, at this girl who you think has maybe on the way to forgiving you, who bared her soul before you and then let that awful man go, “I wanted to kill him, Katara, I wanted to so _bad,_ but,” you shake your head, “I couldn’t. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t. I have two family members left, and they’re both _horrible_ people, I _know_ that, and they’ve both hurt the world so much—and I know we have to defeat both of them if we want this war to stop, but. They’re all that’s left. And I just couldn’t,” 

You flinch hard in surprise when, hesitantly and giving you plenty of time to scoot away, she pulls you into a light hug. 

“I know,” she says, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive the man who killed my mother,” she pulls back, big compassionate eyes, “But I think I’m ready to forgive you,” 

 

The play makes you want to curl up and die, but at least—thank the goddamn sprits—Uncle didn’t burn. You did, but you think that’s the way it should have been. You think that’s the way it might be, soon.

The way these people look at you makes you want to curl up and die, too, like they were silently expecting Iroh to burn, too, and are morbidly relieved that he didn’t. You don’t know what they would have done, if he had—you don’t know what you would have done, other than probably cry, and wouldn’t that have been a sight. 

‘ _Love Amongst The Dragons’ all over again,_ you think, and can faintly imagine Uncle laughing at his fake-bearded counterpart. 

 

You place five tiny, flickering balls of fire along Aang’s shoulders ( _Katara, Sokka, Toph, Suki, Uncle—not one for yourself_ ) as he sits, meditating in the early morning sunlight. You leave one final, tiny flame to rest on top of his head, right on the tip of the arrowhead, and think: and this one is for you.

You sit next to him and feel him breathe, concentrating on keeping the fire just off of his skin, and you think: this boy is twelve, and young, and going to die, and—of course, of course, always, just like before—there is nothing I can do to stop it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every comment shields me from 1 homophobic family member

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [the last dragon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9481265) by [thesometimeswarrior](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesometimeswarrior/pseuds/thesometimeswarrior)




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